


Green-Eyed Monster

by Madalayna



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Birth Control, Consent, Dancing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fist Fights, Flirting, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Jealousy, Meant To Be, Oral Sex, POV Jemma Simmons, POV Leo Fitz, Shameless Smut, Swearing, Tasers, True Love, for teh secks, good old fashioned shagging, inexperienced Fitz, the way it should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4224600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madalayna/pseuds/Madalayna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi">memorizingthedigitsofpi</a>'s fic <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4175766">Happy Hallowe'en</a>. Simmons in a daring dress. Fitz in a suit and slicked back hair. It may be Hallowe'en, but that doesn't mean this trick ain't a treat. Fitz is Gomez Addams and Simmons is Morticia. It's all good fun until they're rudely interrupted...dun dun dun dun *snap* *snap*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He's creepy and he's kooky...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [memorizingthedigitsofpi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi/gifts).



> This is a sequel to [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi)'s fic [Happy Hallowe'en](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4175766). Please read that first. It's fabulous!

“Such a relief not to have to worry about being chatted up finally,” Jemma muttered as she clung to Fitz’s shoulders while they swayed to the music.

Fitz forced a chuckle. _What was he, her bloody consolation prize?_

The truth was he hadn’t been late because of his costume, he’d been late because he hadn’t wanted to come. Then as the clock moved to the time he was meant to arrive, he’d thought of her all alone and instantly set to work getting himself presentable. He couldn’t leave her like that. No matter how uncomfortable he was getting.

Lately, Jemma was acting oddly. She would be sitting on his bed watching telly or next to him at the library studying and he’d catch her just staring at him. Not the normal expressions she always had for him, facefulls of comfort or exasperation or serious let's-figure-this-out looks. No, he’d glance up to find her gazing thoughtfully at him and, as she blushed crimson, her golden brown eyes would flit away like a startled rabbit's. Suddenly embarrassed, she would immediately look back to her book or the telly or anywhere but at him. It was disconcerting and he was beginning to wonder if it had some deeper meaning than just forgetting what she were about to say or trying to remember the answer to problem seventy-one.

None of this really would’ve seemed like much of an issue to him if it weren’t for the fact that, not only was Simmons his best friend, he cared about her—even loved her. At first, she’d acted like more of a sister than anything else and that was fine. He could deal with being just her friend. She was gorgeous, brilliant and clearly far above the caliber of woman that he was ever likely to attain.

Truthfully, he’d always figured he’d be quite happy to find someone even _nearly_ as intelligent as Simmons. He’d likely be a fool if he didn’t marry such a girl immediately if she were at least as attractive as a ring-tailed lemur. To hope to find someone who was both clever _and_ beautiful—well, that was asking for a bit much with what he had to offer in return.

All that being said, Simmons staring into his eyes longingly was…baffling. It was unclear and he didn’t like for things to be the least bit ambiguous. Especially when it came to people. People already muddied up the water, but when something that had seemed so clear a month ago went murky—well, he didn’t know what to do. Was he _supposed_ to do something? What if he _did_ and it went wrong? What if he were _mistaken_? What if she just couldn’t remember the answer to problem seventy-one?!

Confusing. He hated when things got cloudy.

So the idea of coming out with her dressed like _this_ —he glanced down, his brain reeling at the view into the depths of her cleavage—was not as appealing to him as she might’ve thought. The costumes had been her idea. Then he’d looked up the source material—watched Gomez Addams kissing up his wife’s arm and wondered: Is this what Simmons wants? Is this some sort of come-on? A signal? Then, if it _was_ her dropping a hint, what was it for? Does she want to be _more_ than friends now? Does she just want— _gulp_ —sex? Friends with benefits? Or is he just reading things into it?

Confusing. And very…arousing.

As much as he hated to admit it, if she made the first move he’d never be able to say no.

When he’d first noticed this new trend, he’d thought: no, no, no, they shouldn’t go there, it would just ruin everything! But the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to believe in _them._ Believein their ability to figure things out and stay together—maybe forever. After all, figuring things out is what they did best. They were _FitzSimmons (_ as they were now widely known). They were partners. In _every_ way, if that’s what she wanted. He could hardly allow himself to want that though. The disappointment if he were wrong would be far too great.

His thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping him on the arm, almost painfully.

He turned to see an overly-large tosser dressed as Dracula trying to horn in on his dance with Simmons.

Fitz just gave him a contemptuous look and tried to ignore him.

“Cuttin’ in, buddy,” Dracula persisted, his words slurring a bit.

Fitz looked at Simmons who gave him a subtle shake of her head.

“Don’t think so,” he said over his shoulder.

“C’mon, man, take a hike. S’one dance,” Dracula said, clearly more than a bit drunk. Fitz still couldn’t believe his gall.

“I said, piss off!” he told him, craning his head upward and feeling very small despite his big words. Pickled or not, Sasquatch-Dracula had easily five or six inches and at least seventy pounds on him, but even in a fair fight Fitz was all mouth and no trousers.

“Let da’lady decide,” Sasquatch-Dracula said, words running together. The walloper didn’t give up easily that was for certain.

Fitz figured he had two choices: get his face pummeled by legless-Sasquatch-Dracula or let Simmons set him straight. He looked down to see if she would say anything but her face was lined with worry. She was actually looking a bit like she wanted to hide.

“She’s already decided,” he told him, trying to lead Simmons away from the big, soused oaf.

“No needa be a jackass, man. What’re ya, some sorta control freak er sumpin’?” Squatch-ula’s words were starting to have a knife-edge of belligerence to them even if they were running together like melty cheese. Fitz glanced at his big meaty fists and tried not to think about them beating seven shades of shite out of him.

“Listen, are you dim? I told you t' bugger off, y' prat. She’s in no mood for your alcohol an’ testosterone-fueled bollocks.” He felt Simmons’ fingers grip his shoulders tighter, he assumed, in anxiety. Anxiety (and perhaps a teeny wee bit of fear) were all he was feeling despite his big talk. His insides felt like they were clenched tighter than Squatch-ula's gigantic, horrible fists.

He felt fingers grasping onto his arm just above the elbow and this time it was digging in quite painfully. “Hey, jus’ lis’n here, you—“

But before he could get the face-smashing that was so clearly on the horizon, he was first perplexed by Simmons grasping him by the sides of his face and pulling him down so she could harshly whisper, “Dip me!”

Taking her cue as always, he wrenched his arm out of Squatch-ula’s fleshy fingers and took her down until the small of her back touched his knee. He really hoped she wouldn’t notice that under his pin-stripped suit-jacket his arms were shaking like Jello. “Mon cher,” Simmons said in a sultry tone, stroking down his cheek provocatively.

“Cara bella?” he choked out in a too-high warble but Simmons just grinned up at him.

He vaguely heard Squatch-ula as he said, “Aw, t’hell with it.”

He glanced up to make sure the goon was on his way and then pulled Simmons back to her feet, letting out a small groan at the effort. He grimaced, hoping she wouldn’t be offended at the implication but when she turned back to wrap her arms around his neck, she was still smiling broadly.

“You did your research!” she chirped.

He smiled back but couldn't help but looked after Squatch-ula who was now lumbering up to a pretty brunette at the bar. “What the Hell was _that_ nonsense? What a complete and utter arsehole,” he muttered, mostly to himself but Simmons looked back at him affectionately.

“Thanks for that,” she said, looking deeply into his eyes again and making him question whether there was some larger meaning all over again. “He’s, er, an ex,” she explained. “Well, inasmuch as he can be _called—_ an ex.” She looked somewhat embarrassed at the admission. She shifted her eyes downward and muttered, “It was awhile ago. He’s a twat.”

He raised his eyebrows at her assessment. Suddenly her lack of desire to engage the ignorant wanker made sense. Probably would’ve made things worse.

The song changed and Simmons dropped her arms from around his neck. “I suppose I’ve kept you from your true love long enough,” she smirked. His eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Food? Bottomless pit?” she prompted as she patted his stomach and and pointed toward the tables laden with hors d’oeuvres.

“Right,” he nodded slowly. “S’pose I’ll need to keep my energy up for our _next_ dance.”

She looked simultaneously surprised and impressed. “Another? I thought surely one was all I could wheedle out of you.” 

He gave her a mock-contemplative look. “I might be convinced if you loaned me your chem notes.”

“Deal,” she said instantly, holding out her hand to shake on it and showing off all her straight white teeth.

He smirked at her hand but took it anyway, rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin of the back of her hand. “We’ve not had our tango, Morticia,” he lilted with a quirk of his lips.

She seemed to take a quick breath at his words but perhaps it was just his imagination. Nevertheless, his heart began to beat out the rhythm of the dub-step that had just started thrumming through the speakers. He let her hand go and pointed toward the food. “Ehm, what about you?”

She shook her head. “I already had a bite while I was waiting.” He gave her a sympathetic look, a small stab of guilt poking him in the gut.

“Er, meet at the bar?” he asked. She nodded and he headed off for the food.

When he found her again, she was chatting with Maddie and she’d evidently gotten him a glass of some green concoction that looked rather vile. It appeared she was sipping on her own cup of it. He pointed to it. “Ehm, what in the name of all that’s holy is— _that_?”

“Unholy,” she corrected. “You’ll like it, it’s loaded with sugar,” she assured, going back to her conversation.

He took a tentative sip. “BLEH! You’re tryin’ t' kill me, aren’t you?”

She merely waved her hands over her—he was forced to admit— _stunning_ figure in her skintight costume and with an ironic scoff, said, “Of course, _Gomez_.”

He set the disgusting green muck—which clearly got the majority of its flavoring from the sweaty nutsack of Frankenstein's monster—back on the bar and started in on his food. At least, it would get the taste out of his mouth.

He chewed contentedly until he heard Maddie, mid-sentence, saying, “—thank you very much. I can’t stand that guy. I just wish I had someone to _do_ things with. Like you have Fitz!" He craned his neck around Simmons so he could see Maddie a bit better. She had a glass of something alcoholic that she took a great swig of on occasion. "That’s the kind of relationship _I_ need. No muss, no fuss. I don’t know how you do it but I wish I could find me some of _that_ action. I just don’t understand how you _maintain_ it.” 

“We’re best friends,” Simmons said, glancing back at him with a smile. “It’s not difficult to maintain.” She patted his shoulder. “Right, Fitz?”

He registered that he would need a response and, swallowing down the food he was chewing, said, “Oh, course. Why would it be?” _Why, indeed?_

“Yeah, but—I mean, the _other_ thing. How do you keep it— _you know_?” Maddie asked, giving Simmons a significant look and taking another nip from her glass.

Simmons was shaking her head like she didn’t know what the other woman meant.

“Well, you like each other, right?” Maddie asked.

“Of course.” “Naturally.” He and Simmons both answered simultaneously.

“And you’re both—shall I say, _untroubling to look at_ …” She raised her brows as if to see whether either of them would dispute the assertion.

“Well…” “Yes.” He and Simmons answered together again.

“So, how do you keep it from getting…” Maddie shrugged and waved her free hand vaguely.

“Awkward?” Fitz said a fraction before Simmons said, “Sexual?” He tried to keep his expression neutral as she turned and gave him an odd look before returning her discomfited gaze to Maddie.

“I mean, I’d be all over him,” Maddie plowed on. His brows shot up and he noted how she was beginning to slur slightly. Smirking wildly, she jabbed a finger in his direction and added, “He is a- _dor_ -able.”

Fitz’s face went several shades of red in quick succession. He couldn’t help but glance at Maddie again. She was cute in a way that made him wonder if she was serious—or just off her face. She was certainly not on the level of Simmons but—she was quite intelligent anyway. _Absolutely_ more attractive than a ring-tailed lemur.

“Well—” Simmons began. She glanced at him nervously again and then back at Maddie. “We, uh—well, why would we risk our friendship for, um, _that_? I mean, we’re _lab_ partners. Why would we need to, um." She looked at him for help but he had none to offer. "Well, sex is just—uh." Her eyes began to go from side to side, searching out something she might pull from the air to say in her desperation. "It’s completely beside the point really!” she finally squawked rather awkwardly.

Maddie looked around Simmons to get his reaction and his eyes went like a deer’s in the headlights. His jaw worked for a moment before, pointing to Simmons, he said, “Ehm, what she said.”

Maddie laughed loudly, slapping her hand on the bar as she bent forward. “See?" she finally choked out through the last of her chuckles, “ _Adorable_.” She put her hand on Simmons’ where it lay on the bar and said, “You know someone is going to snap that guy up eventually and then where’re you gonna be? Off in the lab _alone_ , girl,” she nodded sagely, eyes a bit unfocused.

Simmons smiled sympathetically and patted Maddie on the arm. “That’s just fine then, isn’t it? I _love_ being in the lab alone.” For some reason, Fitz felt his heart go like a balloon deflating and was left with a loose, vacant feeling inside his chest.

Simmons turned to him and seeing he’d not eaten much of his rather large pile of food, she asked, “Feeling alright?”

“Yeah, fine. Just—drinks shouldn’t be _green_.” He tried to paste a smile on his face and thought he might’ve succeeded when she smiled back at him winsomely.

“Can I claim my next dance then?” she asked already holding her hand out to him expectantly.

Truthfully, he wasn’t really in the mood any longer but, looking down at her open palm, he didn’t have the heart to deny her. “Course.”

He let her lead him out to the floor. It was another slow-ish song so she quickly wrapped her arms around his neck again and started to sway to the music. He moved his hands along the slippery fabric of her dress to the small of her back just above what he deemed to be the line of propriety. He noted that she was pressed against him even more tightly than the last time. Soon she dropped her head onto his shoulder and he heard her sigh contentedly.

That’s when he felt thick fingers on his bicep, gripping tightly.

“Cuttin’ in.”

Fitz didn’t really need to look to know who it was. He could hardly believe it but Squatch-ula sounded even more blitzed than before.

“ **Fuck _off!_** ” Fitz shouted, wrenching his arm free and turning to get ready for what seemed the inevitable confrontation. He sort of hoped he might be quicker than Squatch-ula now the bloody knob was so completely hammered.

He’d only just faced him when he felt the blinding pain of an enormous fist glancing off his cheek. He staggered back but managed not to fall on his arse.

“Bastard,” Fitz growled as he tried to prepare himself for another blow.

“Get the bloody Hell out of here right now, Riley, or I’ll tase the everloving shite out of you.”

Fitz turned to look at Simmons who was holding something small and black in both hands. It was aimed at Squatch-ula—aka Riley, apparently.

Riley held up both hands defensively and, wobbling slightly, said, “Fine, Jemma. M’outta here.”

“Apologize.” Jemma’s voice was perfectly level and cold enough to make Riley shudder involuntarily.

He glared at Fitz in a way that made gooseflesh prickle up all over his body. “Sorry ‘bout ‘at—no hard feelin’s, eh?” Riley smiled and held out his arms expansively, taking a drunken side-step to keep himself steady. “Least you’ve got Jem ta fight yer battles for ya.”

“I’m sure he’ll be terribly upset about it later tonight when I’m sucking him off. Now _leave_ ,” she said dangerously, her voice completely stony. Riley’s face got tense for a moment and then relaxed again as he turned to leave.

Fitz tried to keep his mouth from gaping as he looked around the room at all the people who were openly staring at them and listening to every word they said. All dancing had ceased, the music played on but everyone was frozen, eyes glued onto the unfolding drama.

Nearly to the staircase, Riley turned back and pointed dramatically at Fitz, “Better hope I don’t see y'again, fuckstick.”

Jemma made a show of aiming her taser at Riley again and he quickly turned, his cape swirling behind him rather impressively. However, his exit was somewhat ruined by the ungainly way he warily made his way up the stairs, clinging to the railing and taking deliberate, unhurried steps. Once they heard the upstairs door close with a loud clang, the low murmur of voices started to come up over the music.

 _Shite, not again!_ The rumor mill would be hellish like it was first year after _this_ fiasco. Once again, no one will ever believe they’re just friends.

Jemma turned to him and immediately started to examine his face. She still had the small, black taser in her hand. “I, ehm, didn’t know you had a taser,” he said, looking down at how close she was holding it to his face.

“Oh,” she said, taking her tiny purse off her shoulder. She opened the “taser” to reveal that it was actually a tube of red lipstick. She popped the lid back on and tossed it into her purse.

“Are you kiddin' me, Simmons? You bluffed that misogynistic troglodyte? With bloody lipstick?”

“Oh, your poor eye! I’m so sorry!” she wailed, already prodding away.  

“Ow, Jesus!”

“Sorry!” She gave him a commiserating look. “I think it’ll be fine but we should put some ice on it.”

He glanced around the room. There was the occasional smirk but mostly now it was eyes darting away as they walked to the bar.

Maddie met them and she already had a bar towel full of ice which she handed to Jemma. She positioned it on his face and then moved his hand up to hold it in place. He noted how she glared up at the door where Riley had gone and he felt a pool of sunshiny warmth for her spread through his chest.

“So, um, care to revise your statements?” Maddie asked suggestively waggling her eyebrows.

“Oh, that was just—I don't know—bravado,” Jemma said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Well, I guess you needed something to balance out the machismo,” Maddie said with a grin.

“He’s lucky I didn’t _actually_ have a taser,” Jemma said vehemently, again glaring up after Riley.

“I’ll console myself with the fact that, statistically, tall people die much younger than people of normal height. I have that to look forward to anyway,” Fitz said with a chuckle, peering at the two women with his unhindered eye.

Maddie started laughing like a loon.

Jemma just turned and, sliding a hand up under the lapel of his suit-jacket, said, “I’m really sorry I put you in the middle of that, Fitz. I shouldn’t—“

He cut her off, his anger at the bastard nearly choking off his heated words. “As if I’d let him speak to you _**in any way resemblin’ that without kicking his bloody teeth in**_ —” Then he remembered how silly that sounded after he’d just got knocked in the head.

Her expression utterly serious, she leaned up and kissed his cheek.

“ _Ahem_ ,” Maddie intoned, adding a cough for good measure. “Anyone want a drink?” Truthfully, she sounded like she’d already had one too many.

Fitz shook his head. “I think I’d like to go home now,” Jemma said wearily.

“I’ll walk you back, just in case,” Fitz said immediately, wishing she _did_ actually have a taser.

Jemma’s eyes widened in realization and she nodded. “Goodnight, Maddie,” she said, giving the other woman a brief hug. “We’ll see you in Chemical Kinetics in the morning.”

“Why did they have to have a class on Saturday?” Maddie moaned. "It's barbaric!"

Jemma gave her friend a supportive smile and then turned back toward Fitz. He took the ice from his eye and left it on the bar. Much to his surprise, with her lips curving in a suspiciously seductive smile, she reached down and slipped her hand into his. Trying to keep a dopey grin from his face and, he suspected, failing miserably, he entwined his fingers with hers and led her up the stairs.


	2. Mysterious and Spooky

Fitz couldn’t help but be a little worried, glancing around suspiciously as they walked across campus.

“He was quite drunk,” Jemma said, squeezing his hand. “I don’t think he’ll try anything else tonight. With any luck, he won’t even _remember_ tonight.”

“Why’d you go out with him anyway?” he blurted without thinking. He looked up from the ground to see the guilty expression on her face and he immediately backtracked, “Jemma, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—I just—“

She held up her other hand to stop him. “He seemed nice at first. I realized fairly quickly what he was really like. I’m so sorry I got you involved.”

He shook his head firmly. “No, Jem—er, Simmons, I’d’ve jumped in anyway even if you'd tried to handle it yourself,” he assured her. “Seemed like it might’ve got worse sooner if you—”

She was nodding slowly. “That’s what I was worried about.”

They walked in slightly uncomfortable silence for a bit. Fitz couldn’t help but wonder what'd happened between her and Riley. She didn’t always tell him about her dates and he certainly hadn’t heard tell of _that_ wanker.

“Sounded like Maddie was hoping you might take her out,” Jemma said casually, just as they got to her dormitory building.

Fitz’s brows came together in confusion because the signs just seemed to get cloudier and cloudier. He looked down at their entwined fingers and then shrugged his shoulders. “She’s just a bit squiffy 's all.”

“Mmm, I suppose you could be right,” she said, her tone and expression equally inscrutable. “You should really come up so I can have a better look at your...” She didn’t finish, just fluttered her fingers in the general direction of his face.

He peered at her again, trying to read her expression, but it was completely indecipherable. “Okay,” he said finally.

She let his hand go (to his slight disappointment) when he held open the heavy door to the foyer for her. Arriving at her room, she dug through her little purse for a moment before finding her key.

Once inside the door, Simmons was a compact flurry of activity. She tossed her purse onto the entry table, turned on the lamp by her bed, kicked off her shoes, took the long, black wig off her head freeing her own chestnut locks, and then she faced him to say, “Alright, let’s have a proper look at that cut."

He reached up, gingerly touching the tender spot just below his eye and thought: cut?

She went to stand in the doorway to the en suite and flicked on the light. With the dimness of the room and the bright light behind, her silhouette in that skin-tight dress was readily apparent and she just—took his breath away.

"Come on," she said, and he took in a sharp, involuntary breath at the low, sexy quality of her voice.

Or maybe it was all in his imagination? Perhaps he was going mad? _Yes,_ w _ith lust maybe_ , a small voice whispered in the back of his mind.

He walked toward her and, rather than turning, she backed up slowly to give him space to come inside the small room with her. He tried to keep his eyes focused on her face and not— _lower_. Then, to his surprise, she took hold of the lapels of his jacket—her eyes never leaving his—and pulled him back with her until they were well within the bright sphere of light cast by the fixture over the sink where she wanted him. He licked his lips and tried to remember how to breathe.

He dragged his gaze from hers up to the mirror where he could see that the skin just below his eye was a bruised purple but there didn’t seem to be any swelling.

Using her hold on his jacket, Simmons tugged him down to her level. He just managed not to gasp at the suddenness of it (or, if he was honest, at the incredible sexiness of it). Gently, she began to prod with her face just inches from his. He found himself staring at her full, red lips longingly until she got to the spot with the worst of the bruising and he suppressed a groan at the pain as her fingers moved over it.

“Sorry, but at least nothing’s broken,” she whispered, and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheekbone just where she’d pushed. “Is that... _better_?”

He swallowed audibly at her tone. It had ceased to be clinical suddenly and now sounded _enticing_. He nodded minutely. His breath was coming quicker and he could see where it was making a few little tendrils of hair flutter right by her ear. He pressed his lips together and tried to calm his breathing.

Pulling down some antiseptic and cotton wool from the cabinet on the wall, she examined his cheek further. She rolled up onto her toes as she inspected, finally saying, rather dramatically, "Oh, for goodness sake! I need to get a proper look at that cut.” She put her hands on the sink behind her and wiggled her hips as she tried to lift herself up onto the countertop behind her, but she seemed to be struggling. "Damnit," she said finally, "This bloody dress is..." she looked up at him, seeming slightly embarrassed, "It's too tight. Perhaps a little help would be in order?"

His eyes must've got very wide because she grinned up at him in amusement and then lifted her arms toward him like a child would when they wanted to be picked up.

"Oh," he said, his face reddening and he suddenly felt a bit dim. Why was he reading significance into everything? He slipped his fingers under her arms and—careful to avoid anything resembling any sort of attempt at groping—he lifted her up onto the sink.

"Much better!" she said, clearly pleased. She was now nearly at eye level with him.

He tried not to stare as she looked at the damage to his face. She soon took an antiseptic-infused piece of cotton wool and dabbed it to his cheek.

He hissed through his teeth and she immediately began to blow gently on the spot. He quickly became overwhelmed by the feeling, letting his eyelids slide shut to just enjoy the sensation of her cool breath soothing the sting. When he felt her hands come up to cup his jaw, his eyes blinked back open only to be met by an extremely serious glint in her caramel eyes.

"Thank you, Fitz," she said once again, but it was nearly a whisper. She was so close, yet he could still only just hear her words, though he distinctly felt her breath slip lightly over his cheek again. He shivered, despite the fact that the words themselves weren't particularly alluring because her tone was quite _exciting_.

Then she brought her hands around his neck, her fingers just barely teasing into his hairline as she began to pull him closer. His heart started to beat out a sharp staccato when her lips met his cheek just below his bruise again. He couldn't draw breath as she lingered over his skin, her lips charting a tingling path as she dotted several feather-light kisses across his cheekbone.

Was this it? Was this the sign? Did she want more? To be more? _Together?_

He didn't know what to do and his brain was becoming muddled by the feel of her lips still moving against his cheek. His hands seemed to come up of their own volition to take gentle hold of her forearms to either side of his chin as they stretched back to cradle his neck. Her fingers were running furrows up into the short hairs at his nape and it made him gasp in another shallow breath. He ran his palms over the silky fabric, feeling her sleek arms beneath his fingers, as he loosely grasped on. When she took her lips away, he leaned back and slid one hand down her arm until he had a lax hold on her fingertips.

He brought the very first knuckle of her index finger up to his lips and placed a quick, chaste kiss to it. He looked shyly up to her eyes—ready to make an excuse, thank her, _anything._ But her expression wasn't amused as he'd thought it might be, instead her eyes were heavy-lidded and dark. Encouraged, he slowly brought her hand back up. He kissed into the valley of her knuckles, pressing more firmly and moving his lips more sensually. He met her gaze again and she let out a breath as if she'd been holding it in. He kissed the back of her hand—hesitating over the soft skin there, letting his lips brush over it first before he pressed down. He moved to her wrist, turning it over to caress the soft, tender inner surface. He didn't need to look up again this time as she then pushed her arm toward him, encouraging him higher. He grazed the soft fabric encasing her forearm and then her bicep. But before he moved his lips higher, he dared a glance at her face again. She smiled, scrunching the fingers of her other hand into the hair over his ear as he bent to press his lips to her satin-enclosed shoulder. He pushed aside her long hair, his fingers slipping into the silky strands, and slowly placed an open-mouthed kiss on her neck just where it met her shoulder. The noise that came from her left him in no doubt of how welcome his advances were. It was nearly obscene considering it was just her neck. Her wanton cry sent an instant bolt of heat straight to his tentatively hopeful cock.

He swept his tongue over the skin of her neck and both her hands knotted in his hair, holding him where he was, as if he would ever try to escape. God, if he could just stay here forever, he thought, that would be just brilliant. He nibbled at the spot just below her ear and she senselessly murmured, "Oh, Fitz."

And it suddenly occurred to him that— _fucking hell_ —this was Jemma Simmons! His best friend, his lab partner, probably the smartest person he knew (next to himself, well, technically she might be smarter but— _fuck, who cares?_ ). She was the most beautiful woman to ever speak to him, the best person he'd ever met and—really, there was no doubting it—she was the bloody woman of his dreams. And right now, at this moment, he felt sure that she wanted him, desired him, was bloody well turned on by him! But that still left him with the question of: what about tomorrow? Was this going to ruin everything between them? Would things get awkward and cause them to drift apart so that they'd not even be able to be friends any longer? He didn't want _that_. He wanted _this_ — _Jesus, he wanted it so much_ —but he definitely didn't want _that_.

With some effort, he separated his mouth from her skin and, dragging his eyes up to hers, he was about to say how maybe this wasn't the best idea ever, when she used her grip on his hair to pull his lips clashing recklessly into hers. He whimpered as she swept her tongue across his lips. All thoughts of how to get out of this hastily flew from his mind like the scatter of a flock of birds taking to the air.

He was pretty sure that he made some sort of shrill, terribly embarrassing noise (that was _absolutely_ not a squeak, thank you) when she changed the angle and sucked on his lower lip. If that weren't enough to mortify him, he made an annoyingly reedy sound in his surprise as her tongue boldly pushed past his lips. Christ, he hoped she wasn’t listening. And though he could feel his eyebrows shooting up and down as her lips played against his, he could do absolutely nothing to stop it. There was nothing for it—he was clearly a gawky, inexpert mess but he was hers. 

Even though he’d taken ground in the opening gambit (despite his unexpressed attempt at retreat) she seemed determined to take him in the second wave with this daring charge. Simmons had always been competitive and he was ecstatic (in this one instance) to let her carry the day in a decisive victory. He might even be swayed to let her win the entire war if the demilitarized zone consisted of a whole lot more of this sort of fraternizing with the enemy. God _damn_ those history of S.H.I.E.L.D. lectures! They had him all in bloody military metaphors. Fucking hell!

In his shock at her sudden blitz—er, snog, he'd grabbed hold of her thighs and he was unthinkingly squeezing them through the satiny fabric of her dress as she inched herself closer to the edge of the sink. He was leaning over her knees because her snug floor-length dress was keeping them locked tightly together. He had the thought that it would be absolutely amazing to slide this fabric upward so he might be able to fit neatly between her—but that was likely a terrible direction to think in. He mentally shook himself—none of that!

His breathing was beginning to come rather loud and ragged through his nose. Then there was the sloppy wet sounds their lips were making, at once turning his cheeks pink but also making him think of other wet noises they might make. 

He was achingly hard and tried to move closer to her but the tight fabric keeping her knees together was still hindering him greatly. He would never have been bold enough to try to move it but, much to his surprise— _surprise? Bloody hell he was fucking flabbergasted_ —she reached down and gathered up the skirt, raking it upward so she could part her legs. Without hesitation, he moved between them (but not _too_ close), taking her by the hips as he teased at her lips with his tongue. She opened and he slipped inside again to the sound of her pleased hums and gasps.

He had a moment to think how horribly wrong this could go as he ran his hands up and down the slippery satin at her hips. Then he heard the sound of a zipper. His brain seemed to shut off for a moment to repeat: ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod.

He moved back and then the top of her dress was coming down to pool in her lap and he was looking directly at her breasts still encased in the lacy prison of her black bra. She was watching him and he assumed his face must have had the world’s dopiest, most gobsmacked expression because she was looking at him rather charitably.

Here he was staring like an idiot at Jemma’s (frankly fucking fantastic) boobs and all he could think was: This is either going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to me or I’m about to be emotionally dashed against the rocks. His inherent pessimism was sending out a rescue party to save his heart but he already knew it was too late. He was completely sunk. His heart belonged to Jemma Simmons and if she chose to cut it up for paper dolls then so be it. He was at her mercy now.

“Let’s, um, reconvene,” she said unexpectedly, just as he was coming in for another snog, trying (quite cleverly, he felt) not to look overly eager to get his hands (and mouth) on her boobs.

“Huh?” he very eloquently replied, halting an inch from her lush mouth, which he couldn't help noticing was currently a bit deliciously smeared with red lipstick.

She gave him a kindly smile and pointed toward the other room.

“Yes, right,” he said, looking around the room as if he’d never seen it before. He took a step back but was still not quite able to take his eyes off her half-naked form. _Get it together, Fitz!_ he told himself.

Wrenching his eyes away, he turned and went into her dorm room where he’d been hundreds of times, studying, watching telly, chatting, sleeping, working but he never kissed her here before. God, he’d never kissed her anywhere before, except her en suite. This was absolutely mental. He'd just kissed his best friend in the toilet! She was half-naked and he was standing in the middle of her room half-hard dressed as bloody Gomez Addams! What the fuck? He _must_ be off his trolley. This had to be a dream—or maybe it was about to become a nightmare? He dragged a hand across his face and realized he was sweating like a bloody politician.

Then, he felt her hand on his back, stroking lightly.

He turned and saw her face and suddenly it was all okay again. This was good, right—meant to be, even—everything would work out fine. She’d slipped out of her dress and stood before him in her lacy knickers and bra. She reached up and slid her hands onto his shoulders and back down to the buttons of his double breasted suit-jacket. She twisted one button and then another and his brain was back to: ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod.

This was _really_ happening.

He didn’t think he could just do this one time. He didn’t think he could go back to “just friends” if it didn’t work out or she was just interested in a little fling. He thought maybe it would kill him.

“S–Jemma?”

She looked up from where she was finishing with the last button. She seemed completely unconcerned as she started to slip the jacket from his shoulders until he stopped her, shrugging it back up his arms.

“Is this—are we, er—Shouldn’t we...” _What the bloody hell are we doing?_ Is what he really wanted to ask but instead he went with: “Is this a _good_ idea?”

She looked at him a bit seriously, confusion and something else he didn’t recognize moving across her face. “Um, I though—yes, if you—I mean, you seemed, uh—Are you not…?” she trailed off and looked like she was cringing a bit at the end but the last thing he wanted to do was make her uncertain about how he felt.

“Of course I am. Just—Jemma, what…” he cleared his throat, giving himself a chance to ask what he really wanted this time, “What is _this_? Are we still _just friends?_ ” Fuck. Still not right.

But she suddenly looked relieved, moving her hands across his shoulders again. “Of course not. We’re more than that, Fitz. I mean, we always have been, really. But until tonight, I never realized how _much_ more we could be. Don’t you feel the same?” Her eyes were searching his, they looked hopeful and loving even.

“I do,” he said, nodding vigorously and knowing it was true. From the moment he met her he’d felt it was true. She smiled and it lit up her face, her eyes seemed to sparkle from within as her nose scrunched up adorably.

He dropped his hands down onto her hips, caressing the lace covering her skin and then using his grip on her hips to bring her against him. Then he met her lips in a kiss deeper than any they’d shared yet. He felt like they were melding together, minds, bodies—he wasn't sure if he believed in anything like a soul but, if there was such a thing, his had certainly found its mate.

That was when her bloody phone began to ring.

He felt her trying to ignore it. Her lips kept up the pace for the first three rings but then after the fifth she was starting to groan and look at her purse out of the side of her eye.

He leaned back and, with a rueful smile and a sigh, said, “Go ahead. I know you’re dyin’ to get it.”

She looked hesitant for about three seconds and then held up a finger and said, “I’ll only be a moment.”

Famous last words, he thought. He tried to tame his lust (or at least his cock which had gotten an infusion of heat with that last amazing kiss) while he listened uninterestedly to Jemma’s side of the conversation. However, his interest definitely began to pique when he heard, “Oh no! Oh! Alright, uh-huh, alright. Just give me a few minutes.” Bugger.

Jemma’s face was already apologetic when she came back. “Oh, Fitz,” she said, placing a hand on his chest. “Maddie is…” she made a face and he got it.

“Praying to the porcelain god?” he supplied.

She giggled and when she glanced up, her eyes happy and amused because of him, his heart skipped a beat. “I was going to say exploring the mysteries of china,” she said, moving closer.

Then it was his turn to chuckle. He ran a hand up her arm, marveling at how soft her skin was.

“Talkin’ to god on the big white telephone?” he suggested.

She smirked and leaned up to cup his cheeks and kiss him tenderly. “I’ll come back as soon as I can, alright?”

He nodded. “It’s okay, Jemma. Take care of your friend. Don’t worry about me.”

She was grinning as she reached up to rub at his upper lip and said, “I think you should likely clean up a bit anyway.”

He rubbed his lip where she had and his fingers came away slightly black. Shite. He’d forgotten about the silly makeup mustache.

“You’ve got some lipstick on you as well,” she said, not even trying to stop herself from smirking at him.

“Who’s fault is that?” he asked and kissed her again playfully, just brushing his lips over hers and feeling so free and odd and incredibly wonderful at being able to do it just because he wanted to.

She hugged him around the neck after. He splayed his hand over her lower back and one of his fingers discovered a dimple just above the line of her knickers. He caressed it, thinking how he’d like to do the same with his tongue.

“God, Jemma, you—you should—” He didn’t want to tell her to leave her own room but he was only a hair’s breadth from trying to convince her to forget about Maddie so he could have his way with her.

“Yes, I should,” she agreed and set to getting dressed, much to his dismay, as he watched her covering all her gorgeous bare skin.

She gave him a peck on the lips and reassured him again, “I’ll be right back.” He nodded giving her a hopeful smile.

When the door clicked shut, he slid off his suit-jacket and went back into the en suite to clean up. He was just finding a face flannel when there was a knock on the door.

It was late and he couldn't think who it would be besides Jemma back again. He went to check when he saw her little purse on the desk. He chuckled, realizing she must’ve locked herself out.

“When you said, ‘right back’,” he started, opening the door, “I thought—“

He froze when he saw Squatch-ula—er, Riley towering in the doorway.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” Fitz blurted.

Riley’s look of disbelief slowly morphed into an expression that made Fitz’s blood run cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments! Please feed my ego, it's only about 80 lbs soaking wet these days.


	3. When People Come To See 'Em

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *smirks* Still no smut. I had to resolve that little bit of story first. Next chapter, I promise!

Leaving just as things were getting truly interesting was very nearly physically painful. Jemma kept looking back at Fitz as she dressed, trying to think of a way she might get out of helping Maddie but she honestly couldn’t think how. Thankfully, her friend was only one floor down, so if she wasn’t too bad off then perhaps Jemma could return to him before long. She shivered at the mental image of what she could spend the rest of her evening doing. Quickly, she tried to push the thought aside. Really, she should focus on her sick friend, not herself. Jemma forced one foot in front of the other down the hallway, very aware of how each step took her farther from Fitz.

She darted a glance behind her, unable to forget Riley’s threatening, entitled attitude back at the Boiler Room. As soon as she’d stepped into the hallway alone, she found herself remembering his hate-filled face glaring at her darkly but she only scoffed at her silly urge to ask Fitz to walk her down. She pushed on, just quickening her steps as she hurried to the lift. She threw another quick glance over her shoulder as she walked inside and then pressed the button for the second floor.

Feeling safe in the little box, she remembered how Fitz had glanced heatedly up at her just before he brought his lips down to caress her knuckles. His blue eyes were so desirous but still attentive and so very hopeful. As he worked his way up her arm in a much more sexually charged take-off on the characters they were portraying, an exquisite tension had filled her body until his mouth came down on her neck. With his lips, he’d singed her skin with pleasure until she’d let loose with an indecent moan. His kiss had ignited a scorching flame of want, hot and pulsing between her legs. It licked through the core of her as its rapid, wanton pace kept perfect time by the beat of her heart.

When he parted from her tingling skin, she couldn’t stop herself from pulling him down to her, bringing his lips against hers. Not only was their kiss full of hunger like she’d never even imagined between them but she felt herself filled with a sense of completeness she’d never experienced before from something so purely physical.

And— _god_ —as they tasted each other for the first time her whole body had become engulfed by that flame of desire. It rippled over her skin and made her giddy with wanting him. She found herself longing in a way she’d never felt for any man before.

Yet all this was contrasted by the the knowledge that this was _Fitz_ —her best friend, her partner in science and the person she loved and trusted most in the world. It was frightening but also, comforting. Becoming lovers somehow felt right suddenly—a logical next step toward what they would ultimately become. What that was, she hesitated to think, but she knew that she wanted to find out.

The truth was, until she’d seen him stand up to Riley, she’d never really thought of him that way. Not long after they’d met, she'd soon recognized not only how brilliant Fitz was but also how good and sweet—she'd immediately known that they would be great friends. She’d never considered that he might also be brave and selfless in such a way as he'd shown tonight. Seeing him willing to stand up to that revolting bully, something in her mind had shifted. She saw a side of him she hadn’t before and it was infinitely appealing. It awoke a kindred feeling in her heart and it registered how she’d met her match in yet one more way. She wasn't certain why, but it had also aroused a sudden attraction that she'd never before recognized—or hadn't cared to on a conscious level.

Before now, she’d never really considered going to bed with her best friend. She had noticed his eyes a good deal lately though. They seemed bluer somehow, clearer, more _lit_ with some inner light she’d never noticed before. He’d also gotten a new haircut that somehow highlighted his bone structure in a way that made his face look older and more grown up. She’d been studying the interesting effect of his hairstyle and just what was different about his eyes in the last week or two. She still hadn’t figured it out completely but she had discovered that it affected her in some way. He’d look at her with his eyes caught in the light just so and she’d draw in an involuntary breath. Still, she had no idea what it all meant—not until tonight.

She sort of assumed that, being a heterosexual male, he likely wondered about (or even imagined) what it would be like to sleep with her—though perhaps not seriously. She thought if she initiated things, he might respond. And though he’d seemed enthusiastic, her heart nearly stopped when he dragged his jacket back up his arms and began to question her. She thought she’d made a mistake or even ruined things. Then it seemed he just wanted to know that she wasn’t mucking him about and she was able to breath again. She rolled her eyes at the idea that she would ever do such a thing. Oh, Fitz.

She knocked on Maddie’s door and heard, “It’s open!” She pushed through, into her friend’s room, and tried to think how she could get herself out of this as quickly as possible. Then she heard the noises.

“Oh, dear,” she muttered to herself going into the loo where Maddie was clutching at the toilet like a life raft.

“Oh, Jesus. Oh, god,” Maddie moaned weakly, retching again. She stretched up and flushed the mess down. “Courtesy flush,” she said nearly managing a feeble laugh. “Clearly, I’m being punished but there’s no need for you to suffer more than—oh god,” she said, wrapping her arms over her stomach.

Jemma moved some of Maddie’s hair off her sweaty face. “Goodness, poor thing.” It was all she could bring herself to say. She didn’t think it was the time to scold her friend for drinking too heavily. She got up and wet a flannel, using it to clean her sticky, soiled face.

“You’re such a good friend,” Maddie said and then heaved into the toilet once more.

 _You have no idea,_ Jemma thought as she tried to hold back Maddie’s hair while pressing the re-folded cloth to the back of her neck.

* * *

“You!” Riley growled, his eyes narrowing down. He seemed—quite frighteningly—much closer to sober.

Fitz didn’t put a lot of thought into what he did next, it was blind impulse. He shoved the door with all his might putting his body weight into it.

Unfortunately, seventy extra pounds is a lot when it’s on the other side of a door and evidently Riley put his shoulder into it as well. Fitz flew back with the door, hitting the entry table behind him, and knocking things onto the floor with a loud clatter.

 _So, this is how I die_ , he mused. His eyes searched frantically for a weapon of some sort. Evidently, he was to be pummeled into a trifling slurry by a drunken, fucked off giant with an unbelievable inability to hear the word no. And all because he couldn’t keep his bloody gob shut. He never would’ve guessed. Well—not entirely true—perhaps dying because he couldn’t keep his gob shut didn’t seem all that terribly surprising.

All this passed through his mind very quickly as his amygdala sent out the emergency signal to flee or fight. His brain instantly flooded with adrenaline, his heart rate sped up and his mind grew slower, forgoing much of his higher reasoning to rely heavily on instinct instead. He knew all this was happening inside his brain but he could do nothing in the moment but react.

He tried to get his fear-muddled mind to think of something— _anything_ —that might save him. His instincts settled on flee and he turned, beginning to sprint for the toilet. Maybe he could lock the door and give himself some time so he might try to figure out what to do?

However, that plan was stymied when he felt a kick to the back of his calf that somehow made the floor come up to meet his face. It nearly knocked the wind out of him as he felt Riley take hold of his arm and twist it painfully behind his back.

“Fuck!” he cried out. “You bastard!” It was _almost_ involuntary but it only made Riley twist his arm harder.

Fighting the pain, he looked about wildly for something to defend himself with. His eyes lit on some of the things he’d knocked to the floor and saw Jemma’s phone. Naturally, it was just out of reach. And _his_ mobile was in his jacket on the back of Jemma’s desk chair halfway across the room. Either of them might as well be on the moon for all the good they did him with his arm trussed up behind his back and howling at him in pain.

Riley leaned down to whisper frighteningly intimately by his ear. “Where’s Jemma?” He sounded too casual, no hint of upset in his words, it was as if he weren’t about to stomp Fitz’s head into the floor but perhaps offer him a pint instead.

Fitz already felt a bit sick from the pain in his arm but the idea that this foul animal was after _her_ made him want to retch. Then he felt more anger fill him up than he’d ever felt before in his life.

He began to try to wiggle himself out of Riley’s grasp. It only made the brute twist his arm up higher until he felt like it was going to break or pop clean off. He bit off a cry at the agony, not wanting to give the arsehole the satisfaction.

“I asked you a question, runt,” he said, startlingly close again. Fitz could even smell the sour tang of alcohol on his breath.

Fitz reached back with his other hand and managed, in a stroke of luck, to grab the devil by the ear—he wrenched as hard as he could. Riley cried out and loosened his grip just enough for him to yank himself free. He crawled forward, collecting Jemma’s phone as he pushed himself to his feet and made a run for the door to the toilet.

He was nearly there, just a few more steps. It was unclear whether the shot of adrenaline he was running on was helping or hindering as his eyes darted about the room still searching for something heavy.

Much to his misfortune, something heavy found him.

Fitz had never been interested in sports (not unless it was imagining being in a pie eating contest or the memory olympics or even picturing himself racing his yacht after he’d become a billionaire inventor) and he’d never known why exactly he disliked them—not until this moment.

Riley hit him from behind with the force of a linebacker.

This time the wind was absolutely knocked out of him as Riley’s full weight came down on his back. Tears came to his eyes as he tried in vain to draw breath. Finally, with a sound like being in a wind tunnel flowing through his ears, he pulled in a great agonizing gasp of air. It stung and burned horribly but he supposed it beat suffocating.

His arm and shoulder still smarted nauseatingly. When Riley struggled up, efficiently jerking him over by the elbow, it felt as if the knob-headded yeti were ripping his shoulder straight from the socket. In his least proud moment thus far, Fitz let out an unmanly yowl at the pain while Riley pinned him to the floor. His face hovered above with a repugnant sneer while Fitz gasped and choked, still trying to fully regain his breath.

“This is the last time I’m going to ask you, twerp. Where’s Jem?” he said menacingly, poking him in the chest none-too-lightly. Riley’s face was far too close to Fitz's for his liking and his stinking breath was completely unavoidable as he tried to drag in more air to refill his aching lungs.

 _This is not going to end well,_ Fitz thought. Shrugging inwardly, he decided he might as well make his big finish memorable.

He forced out a weak laugh from his strained airways, right into Riley’s face. “Gone, you neanderthal.” He sucked more air into his throbbing chest. “Actually, that’s an insult to neanderthals—come to think.” He gasped again. “You’re just a big gorilla. Actually, no—that’s an insult to—”

The look of pure hate on Riley’s face made Fitz halt and reconsider his course of action.

“I’m gonna really love this,” Riley said, loathing and some very unsavory glee tinging his words.

* * *

Maddie’s convulsions having subsided, Jemma collected her hairbrush from the sink top and rinsed the flannel so she could used it on her friend’s sweaty face again.

“Feeling better?” Jemma asked, running the brush through Maddie’s hair and then putting an elastic in to keep it in place.

She wasn’t vomiting any longer, not since the initial uproar. Now if Jemma could just get her into bed she’d be free.

Maddie seemed to be dozing against the porcelain rim and she shook her gently. “Mads? Feeling better?”

She nodded a bit without opening her eyes. “M’fine. Needta sleep.”

“Let’s get you into bed then, shall we?” she suggested, slightly hopeful.

Maddie opened her eyes widely, her head popping back up. “Oh, no. Shit.”

Jemma sighed inwardly. “Going to be sick again?”

Maddie was nodding her head vigorously but then it began to slow. “Uh, no. Maybe not.” Then she suddenly vomited into the toilet again, just making it into the bowl. Jemma tried to mentally block out the noises. Finally finished, Maddie reached up a shaky hand to flush. Panting and, once again, sweaty, she said, “That was it. I think I saw a toe. I’m okay now.”

“Really?” Jemma asked, probably a bit too excitedly. “You’re alright?”

Maddie gave her an incredulous look. “You’ve got somewhere to be after ten o’clock at night?” she asked, looking at her watch-less wrist sarcastically.

Jemma’s eyes grew wide and her mouth moved soundlessly before she managed to stutter out, “W–what? No!”

Maddie raised an eyebrow, her expression asking if Jemma believed her an idiot. She dropped her shame-filled eyes to the ground.

“I am a genius too, y'know? Maybe not on your level, but know where I’ve got you beat?” Maddie asked. Jemma shook her head, barely glancing up curiously. “I am not a horrifyingly bad liar.”

Jemma broke down, throwing her hands up literally as well as figuratively. “I know! I’m terrible.” Meeting her friend’s eyes over the toilet, she said, “Just—don’t tell anyone. Do you promise?”

Maddie drew a cross over her heart. “Hope to die,” she said with a small smirk.

Jemma glanced upward and sighed loudly. Not meeting Maddie’s eyes because she was afraid she would find disapproval there, or even worse, mocking, she said, “We, um, kissed.”

“Oh, thank GOD!” Maddie said, smacking Jemma’s shoulder lightly. “I’d hug you but, you know, vomit.”

“You…approve?” she questioned skeptically.

Maddie grinned. “Of course! Fitz is quite the morsel. I told you earlier. I mean, he’s the type of guy you can screw around with, have a pillow fight and then debate him on the finer points of variables in a reproducible experiment all in the same hour. If I hadn’t thought you secretly adored him, I’d’ve made a move myself.” She smiled warmly. “I’m glad it’s not a secret anymore.”

“Well,” Jemma said, clearing her throat lightly, her brows coming together as she contemplated whether that seemed like Fitz (and really, it did sound rather accurate), “I didn’t really think of him that way before tonight. So, really, there was no secret.”

Maddie rolled her eyes. “Okay, then you kept it a secret from yourself, too.” She chuckled weakly and put a hand to her stomach. Then her eyes got bigger again.

Jemma couldn’t help the frown that pulled down the corners of her lips as she waited for the next onslaught from Maddie’s stomach—but it never came. Instead she cried, “Jesus, Jemma! You didn’t leave him _waiting—_ did you?”

Jemma sighed with relief that her friend appeared to be finished with being sick. “Oh, yes. He’s waiting in my room.”

Maddie rolled her eyes again and smacked her on the shoulder hard enough to sting. “Ouch!”

“I never would’ve called you if I’d known such a momentous occasion had arrived! Go! Get some. And you can tell me all about it in the morning at—ugh—Chemical Kinetics.”

Jemma blushed at her insinuation (as true to her intentions as it might be) but, nevertheless, stood to go. Then she took in the sorry state of her friend: arms and legs wrapped around the toilet bowl, face still glistening with perspiration. “I should probably—“

“You should probably _go_ ,” Maddie interrupted. “Now. I'm serious. Don’t make me chase you.” She laughed feebly again. Jemma still hesitated, worrying at the hem of her blouse as she debated. She should at least help her to bed, shouldn’t she? “Just stop,” Maddie said, beginning to push herself up. “I can see your wheels turning but no more thinking. Get the hell outta here. I’m fine. Go and bang the shit out of monkey-boy,” she said with a much larger smirk.

Jemma managed a weak smile (despite the image). Some of the color had returned to Maddie’s cheeks and a little thrill of excitement went through Jemma at the thought of picking up where she’d left off with Fitz. Then, as she looked toward the door, she remembered that she’d have to walk back to her room alone with a drunken stalker of an ex-one-night-stand on the loose—the thought made a shiver run down her spine.

* * *

Though he’d seen it coming, Fitz was still stunned when he felt the punch rock his head to the side. He saw stars and his ears seemed to be ringing, but it was a moment before he felt the pain bloom in his cheek, radiating outward from the point of impact. Once the initial shock passed, it was like a fire that flared, searing hot, and then mellowed to the most excruciating ache he could imagine. Instead of coercing or terrifying him as he assumed was Riley’s intent, it only sparked his anger once more. It burned in his chest far more than his lack of air had and made him wish he could experience the satisfying feel of his own fist meeting the stupid twat's face.

“Congratulations,” Fitz spat out, wondering if the hot tingle on the side of his face was blood or just a new sensation of pain. “You’ve managed to give a subdued man you outweigh by half again a good clout. Well done, you thick-headed waste of bloody space.”

“You’ve got a smart mouth,” Riley replied, grinning quite happily. “I’m gonna enjoy beating the sass right outta you, shitheel.”

Riley drew his fist back, ready to slug him again.

Bracing for the impact, he felt his smart mouth go dry just as he heard a shaky voice behind Riley grind out, “Touch him again and you’re going to be laying in a puddle of your own piss, you psychotic bastard!”

The raised fist came back down as Fitz blinked in relief. Riley’s smile actually grew as he straightened his Dracula cape and turned, easily leveraging himself up from the floor.

“Jem, babe,” Riley said, starting to open his hands placatingly.

No longer pinned and with Riley’s bulk removed from blocking his view, Fitz saw Jemma standing there looking so very small compared to that giant brainless ape. Her expression was hard and cold but she had an incongruous tear slipping down over her cheek as she held out a small black object which Fitz could only assume was her useless fake taser.

“I only wanted to talk to you, baby. This little jackass was trying to keep me from seeing you,” he said, so unconvincingly it might’ve been comical under other circumstances.

“Get out of my room now or it’s going to get very bad for you,” Jemma threatened him. Riley laughed as another tear slipped down her cheek and Fitz saw her lip quiver briefly. He felt the slowly smoldering fury in his chest flame hotter and he clenched his jaw against the angry words that wanted to spill out.

Despite his still-burning lungs he pushed himself up. It was apparent to Fitz that, without the threat of public embarrassment hanging over his head, Riley wasn’t going to back down so easily this time. Fitz did the only thing he could think of—though he still wasn’t sure if what he’d been doing since he’d opened the door to find Riley standing there would qualify as _thinking_.

He leapt onto the beast’s back and hoped for at least eight seconds.

“Run, Jemma! Get the police!” he shouted as Riley growled in a terrifyingly animalistic way and began trying to buck him off.

Though he could no longer see her in the scuffle as Riley twisted around, attempting to shake him loose, he heard her. Voice startlingly calm, she said, “Let go, Fitz.”

For one mad moment, he wondered if he was about to die and a mental-Jemma was giving him instructions for the afterlife.

“Trust me,” she said, he still couldn’t see her but her voice was so earnest it felt like a pain in his heart.

He let go and slid to the floor, landing on his arse. Riley rounded on him immediately and he scuttled backward until he hit a wall. He could already see those enormous, fleshy fists clenching in anticipation of smashing him into infinitesimal bits. Riley’s features, however, told a story so venomous and hateful it made Fitz cringe back further, flattening himself to the wall.

Just a few steps shy of striking range, Riley stopped very suddenly. His face was frozen in an expression of shock. To Fitz, it looked as if he’d been paused.

He noticed an odd noise accompanying Riley’s paralysis, it was like the sound of electric bees. Then, Riley began to fall face first, his body oddly stiff as it met the floor, where he began to twitch fitfully. With the way his luck was running, Fitz was surprised the wanker didn’t land right on him.

As soon as Riley hit the ground, Fitz saw the wires coming out of his back. With his eyes, he followed them all the way to Jemma and the barrel of her now-evidently-real taser.

Her expression appeared horrified—eyes wide, tears still streaming and mouth dropped slightly open in dismay. She immediately let the weapon fall to the ground and ran to him.

“Oh my God, Fitz!” She was crying as she came down on her knees in front of him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She pulled back to look at his face which, honestly, didn’t hurt as much as his lungs despite the fact that Riley had been much more behind that second punch than he had the first one at the Boiler Room. Her arms still on his shoulders, Jemma looked from him to Riley and then over to the mess scattered by the door and then back to his throbbing face. She seemed to war with herself over whether to grab him into another hug, call the police or look at his cheek. Finally, she tightened her arms, pulling him to her again.

“S’okay,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m fine.”

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed out against his neck.

“Jemma,” he said, pushing her back so he could see her expression. “None of this is _your_ fault. By _any_ means. _He’s_ the one. _He’s_ bloody mental. He’s—he’s…” But he started to lose his ability to find words in his anger. Just thinking about what that bastard had hoped to gain from this made him see red. “He’s just—nothin’. Nothin’ to do with anythin’. Certainly not us.” Her face softened and she nodded, swiping a palm across her cheek in an attempt to dry it. She clutched at him again.

To the sound of Jemma attempting to reign in her tears, he glanced at Riley over her shoulder. He was still laying there stiffly and—Fitz bloody well hoped—unconscious. Not wanting to take any chances, he stood, stooping to help Jemma up, and looked around. He didn’t know where Jemma’s mobile had got to after the skirmish on the floor (damn you, Vaughn, and your History of S.H.I.E.L.D.). Nevertheless, he didn’t waste time looking further, he went to the desk chair and got out his phone to ring the police.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment/review! *mwah* Thanks for reading!


	4. They're All Together...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all finished, this is the end, folks!

“You still sure you don’t wanna go to the hospital?” Agent Briggs—oddly enough—asked with a note of skepticism.

After he'd made the emergency call, all Fitz could do was hold a very emotional Jemma as she sobbed while keeping one eye on Riley. He kept (what Jemma quickly informed him was) Maddie's taser clutched in his hand so tightly his knuckles grew white, just in case the bastard looked to be regaining consciousness. Fitz had finally been able to relax and breathe again once the agents finally arrived.

Fitz could hardly believe the coincidence after Briggs had introduced himself and he'd smirked at Jemma. However, she just barely glanced back at him, still looking rather upset. He tried to keep his worry over how she was feeling about everything down to a minimum until they had a chance to speak alone.

“Ehm, no. J—er, Dr. Simmons can take care of it,” Fitz told Briggs again, glancing at her once more to confirm. Jemma smiled tightly and nodded.

Fitz had a small bag of frozen peas pressed to the side of his face from Jemma’s tiny icebox that was, apparently, too small for actual ice cubes.

He didn’t think his injuries were all that serious anyway. His chest felt mildly constricted when he tried for a deep breath and his face was feeling no pain with Jemma making him keep the peas on regularly. Still, nothing had been hurt as badly as his pride when he’d been forced to have photos of his face taken with that damned makeup mustache still winding it’s blurry way across his upper lip. Bloody hell.

Agent Briggs shook his head and tore off a piece of paper from his clipboard, which he then handed to Fitz.

Looking to Jemma, Briggs said, “You really are lucky your boyfriend didn’t get hurt a lot worse. It's a good thing you borrowed that taser from your friend.”

It had taken three agents to wrestle a still-bleary Riley out of Jemma’s dorm room while the two of them gave their statements. Fitz couldn’t help but agree that he _was_  actually quite lucky. He opened his mouth to correct Agent Briggs’s assumption about his and Jemma's relationship—more out of habit than clear thinking. But, then, he felt Jemma slipping her hand around his arm, her fingers gripping his bicep, and he reached to cover her hand with his own for comfort. Realizing he didn't really know what he and Jemma were to each other now, he shut his mouth with an audible click.

“Thank you, agent. I’m sure you’re right,” she said, gesturing toward the door.

Not taking the hint, Briggs looked back to Fitz. “There’s the case number,” he said, pointing to a long string of numbers at the top corner of the paper. “We’ll take care of getting the restraining orders active. Should be in effect by the time he’s out on bail. You might need to come in and sign some paperwork though. Also, you’ll probably be called to testify, depending on the plea.”

Fitz nodded sagely, even though he had no clue what all this would amount to. “Course.”

“Well, alrighty, then,” Briggs said, glancing around the room as if he might’ve missed something. “Hope you two have a better evening.”

Fitz looked at his watch at the mention of time passing and saw that it was just after midnight. Damn. Chemical Kinetics in the morning at eight o’clock in the bloody morning! Hall was a stickler for punctuality as well. Shite!

Jemma saw Agent Briggs out while Fitz sighed, resigned.

Jemma was (and likely always would be) prudent in all things. As much as he’d been hoping for something beyond their bit of heated kissing, he steeled himself for the wait he would likely have to endure before anything else came of—well, whatever the hell it was that was happening between them. If, indeed, that was still on the table. Her odd behavior following Riley's attack had him a bit worried that it was all going to the devil already. Perhaps Riley had accomplished part of his goal in the end of making sure nothing happened between them.

The door clicked shut behind Briggs and Jemma turned back to him but the crumpled expression on her face instantly made him go to her.

She looked ready to cry again and, dropping the frozen peas on the entry table, he wrapped her up in his arms and stroked over her hair.

“Can you believe it? His name was Briggs,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Like the postman,” she said, her voice slow and quiet, “You really _did_ do your research, Fitz,” but then her voice cracked and she began to sob.

“Shh, shh,” he whispered to her. “It’s all over an' done now. Nothin’ to be upset over any longer. Everythin’s fine.”

She seemed less distraught and more generally despondent than she had after she’d tasered Riley but he thought maybe she only needed to get it all out. So he just held her for a few minutes, caressing her back soothingly, while she cried quietly.

“It’s all okay,” he said. “You’re okay now.”

She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly almost angry. “Me?” she questioned with a scoff. “He might’ve _killed_ you, Fitz!”

The look on her face bore no arguments so he just said, “But he didn’t. I’m okay and so are you.”

He braced himself for another rant but instead she just nodded, snuffling slightly. “Yes. We’re fine,” she agreed. Looking up she added, “Except your poor face.”

She sniffled loudly and he thought for a moment she might start the whole cycle over again. Instead, she seemed to swallow back the new barrage (damn you, Vaughn!) before she grabbed him by one of his braces, the elastic stretching out as she hauled him toward the en suite.

He saw his reflection in the mirror and grimaced, which made an even more interesting picture. His cut was larger than before, having opened up with another blow from Riley's meaty fist. There was a decent-sized smeary rivulet of dried blood that’d run down his cheek. Evidently, it'd dripped down onto the collar of his white shirt, leaving a couple of splotchy red stains. His eye was the worst. It was a deep purple underneath, nearly black, but at least it wasn’t too awfully swollen, thanks to Jemma's peas. All that, along with his crazily mussed hair, blurry makeup mustache that might've been swashes of dirt at this point and his red lipstick-smudged lips made him quite the very model of a well-beaten circus clown. He looked at Jemma—flawless and gorgeous as ever—then sighed once again. On a good day, he was plain at best but he was a downright wretched mess now.

Jemma picked up the flannel he’d only just found before he was “interrupted” by Riley making a hash of his face and then easily hoisted herself up onto the countertop once again to inspect his injuries. She wet the cloth under the taps then very carefully began to clean his face of makeup and, to his dismay, the bit of blood clinging stubbornly to his cheek. He retrieved the first aid kit from the shelf again for her and she pulled him in close, bringing his hips forward to wedge between her knees. It was the same position as their earlier snog session but it was nothing like that time. With clinical detachment, she began to gently disinfect his wound before applying a couple of adhesive strips to his cut to hold the skin closed.

“You’re going to have a little scar,” she warned, smoothing the last strip down on his skin.

As she’d worked, all he could do was remember the last time they’d been in this same position and how it had felt like everything was changing between them. Suddenly, she seemed like the same old Jemma—his best friend and nothing more. He felt his chest tighten like he couldn’t breathe again as he wondered if he’d done something to muck it up already or if The Incident—as he was now thinking of it—had somehow changed her mind. Perhaps she’d decided he couldn’t keep her safe or that he just wasn’t what she wanted now she'd had time to think on it. He sighed, at least they were still friends though.

But he still hated not knowing and, even worse, trying to navigate the murky waters of other people's thoughts. Jemma's thoughts were clear as day when they were speaking about science but when it came to feelings and motivations, he was far less certain. Before Jemma had left to see to Maddie, he’d thought perhaps the two of them were going to navigate those murky waters together from now on. He longed to learn the mysteries of her heart, her hopes and deeper feelings that couldn't be inferred. He looked into her lovely, freckled face and suddenly he had to know what had changed.

“Did—did I do somethin’ wrong?” he asked, his eyes low, not quite able to meet hers.

She flinched back visibly at his question, as if he'd struck her with his words. Her sudden startle, her widened eyes—it all caught him off guard.

She searched his face, perplexed, and said, “What? No! Wait, what? Why would you…” She trailed off, giving him a completely astonished look.

Realizing he mustn’t have done anything, he shrugged. Fitz was many things, but an expert on women, he most decidedly was not.

“I dunno, Jemma. I’m just tryin’—dunno—to see how you’re feelin’, I s’pose.”

She looked oddly relieved at that but then her eyes dropped down and she began to shake her head minutely. “I just—I was worried for myself back at the Boiler Room. I never imagined he’d do— _that_. Not to you.” She looked up then and he saw the upset had returned to her eyes. “I thought he was all drunken bluster when we were dancing but…” She shook her head again.

She reached up, running her hands along his shoulders before pulling him to her in a fierce embrace. She was up higher than he was, where she sat on the counter, and she was able to press a kiss to his forehead. It was slow and lingering as her earlier ones had been on his cheek but it felt completely different. It had none of the heat or desire her kisses had seemed laced with earlier. It was, instead, full of care and…love? Or perhaps he was reading too much into it. Fondness, maybe, was more accurate.

They stayed that way for several minutes just holding each other. Occasionally, she would place another kiss to his head or run her nose ticklishly over his hair, or let her fingers glide down the back of his head.

Finally, he was unable to keep himself from checking his watch over Jemma's shoulder where she couldn't see. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. He didn’t want her to tell him to go. It seemed too heartbreaking somehow after what had seemed so imminent. He had no idea how she felt still, but it didn’t seem the right time to address it. Perhaps tomorrow when things had settled down a bit?

“Jemma, I should probably go,” he said hesitantly. He felt her suck in a breath at his words and he quickly added, “Chemical Kinetics in the mornin’, y’know? Dr. Hall? Can't be late!”

Against his temple, barely above a whisper, she said, “Stay.”

He felt like his heart leapt into his throat even though he didn’t know exactly what she meant by it. Did she only want him to stay just to sleep? Perhaps only for the comfort? Did she want to discuss what’d happened further? Did she want something _else_? He wasn't sure it really mattered because whatever Jemma wanted him for, he would always be there.

“Okay,” he said, nodding slightly for emphasis.

“I’ll get you something to wear,” she said, sliding suddenly down off the countertop and pressing into him provocatively. Which was really a confusing mixture since 'something to wear' implied _just_ sleeping but the supple feel of her breasts gliding against him caused his brain to shriek, ' _oh my Jesus god in heaven_.'

With her intentions unknown, he tried to suppress any excitement as he waited for her return. She came back holding out a pair of his own jogging bottoms and his missing MIT top. “I see doin’ our laundry together is less cost-effective than I thought,” he said, but his tone was teasing.

She smiled shyly, a slight blush tinging her cheeks, as she handed them off. “Sorry,” she muttered, looking down. “They’re quite comfortable.”

“Anythin’ I have is yours if you want it,” he said, and then blushed himself, realizing the implication. “Ehm, I mean, my clothes.”

She looked up rather boldly, licked her lips, and asked, “Is that _all_?”

He suddenly felt he couldn’t breathe again, the room seemed devoid of oxygen, but finally taking in a large gulp of air, he simply breathed out, “Ehm, no.”

She flushed a deeper shade of pink and diverted her gaze, a small smile on her lips. He felt the heat rise in his own cheeks at his answer and looked to his shiny dress shoes as he scraped a toe across the floor.

“Fitz,” she said, her tone shy but her eyes piercing audaciously as he met them. “Maybe you should have a proper wash—take a shower before bed?” Her smile grew and he shivered when her eyes flicked down over him.

Not even sure what he was hoping for, he took in a sharp breath. “Ehm, yeah. I could, eh, do that, I s’pose.”

Her brows knit together and she suddenly sounded more serious, as she said, “Maybe you’ll feel a bit better afterwards? After all, you were the one who had such a horrifying experience. Here, I’ll start the taps.” She stepped over and turned on the water, adjusting it carefully for him.

He tried not to let the disappointment show on his face at her rapid change in mood—from sultry, back to worried friend. He cursed his luck that he seemed to be eliciting that response from her. Seemed it was likely his banged up and bloodied face that was giving her second thoughts about anything beyond caring friend. He really did look quite a fright though and he couldn't exactly blame her, not a bit.

But when Jemma turned back from the shower, she appeared almost determined as she immediately closed the distance between them. He nearly wanted to avoid her gaze as she glanced up at his throbbing, unsightly blight of a face. Then, slowly, she slid her hands up his chest, over his pectoral muscles, until they came to rest with her fingers just edging beneath the tabs of his shirt collar.

He did little more than hope that perhaps she might kiss him again and his heart sped up in anticipation. Her head angled up slightly and his chest seemed to expand. He wet his dry lips and started to lean down to meet her when, instead, she took hold of the first button of his top and started to twist it though. She searched his face again and he didn’t know what expression to put on it suddenly. He thought perhaps he should nod, or acknowledge her unspoken question verbally, when she seemed to read the awkward affirmation in his eyes and twisted the button through the hole. She met his gaze again almost worriedly. This time though, he tipped his head and smiled, not wanting her to feel uncertain.

He felt like there was a surge of electricity racing through his belly as she twisted the next button through the hole. As her eyes smoldered up at him, his brain was back to gibberish—strings of equations and perhaps a bit of nonsensical poetic rubbish running through his mind—as she finished his buttons and pulled his top free from the waistband of his trousers. She pulled his braces down off his arms to dangle at his sides, and then pushed his button-down back off his shoulders. The air was cool, but it was the way she was looking at him that made the gooseflesh prick his skin all over.

She kept her dark eyes on his as she twisted the button on his trousers and lowered the zip. He had to fight not to close his eyes as her fingers brushed against him through the thin fabric of his pants. She let his trousers fall to the floor with a jingle of change and his mobile hitting the tile—then she looked down at the aching bulge in his pants.

She smiled and then went down to her knees.

Something similar to thoughts buzzed through his brain: _Oh, my dear sweet holy god and Jesus in heaven! What the bloody blue hell and blazes is she ruddy well—_

Then felt her begin untying his dress shoes.

 _Oh, right_ , he though. That actually made a lot more sense in hindsight.

She had him lift his feet one at a time while she slipped off his shoes, socks and then trouser legs.

Still uncertain what was going to happen, if anything, he was looking at the ceiling—reciting pi to eighty-four places before he lost his train of thought and had to start again—trying to get his cock to stop hammering almost painfully with every beat of his heart.

Then, Jemma said, “Oh, Fitz! Oh, no.”

He looked down as she touched his calf. He grimaced in pain and, when she pulled her fingers away, they were bloody.

“That absolute _bastard_ ,” she said, with such feeling, Fitz couldn’t help but chuckle slightly.

"Well, you _did_ send fifty-thousand volts through his nervous system. I think we might be even now," he joked.

She frowned for a moment, then seemed to think better of it and smiled up at him tightly. “I’ll need to see to this as well. I think it might need to be closed.” She sighed.

She quickly cleaned and dressed his calf where Riley had kicked him, opening a cut with the sharp edges of his boots apparently. She made him turn in a circle after that, only to find several just formed bruises on both his back and front. He could see the anger grow in her eyes each time she found a new wound. She then insisted on taking a few more photos of his injuries to forward for the investigation.

The small room had filled up with steam as she tended him and he wasn’t able to see her in the large mirror as she stood behind him taking a few more photos of his rapidly darkening bruises. Once she snapped the final photo, he turned to face her, but Jemma's expression had grown quite obscure suddenly. He felt rather exposed himself, standing before her half-naked in only his pants. Jemma stood fully dressed in jeans and a blouse with a jumper pulled over it. He was considering how to insinuate (without embarrassing himself) that she could shed a layer or two herself if she liked when she looked somewhat upset again, bringing a hand to her cheek and looking away from his godawful smashed-up face.

“Why don’t you—uh, you should just have your wash. I’ll, er…” She met his eyes briefly but then trailed off. “I’ll just—” she said, pointing back over her shoulder toward her room before she turned and went out.

He sighed loudly once she’d closed the door behind her because—Jesus—he felt awkward. He also was quite confused, vaguely upset and his prick was now in a bloody state. He had no idea what he should do—if anything—for Jemma. He didn’t know if she was upset about him being hurt, what she’d been forced to do, the whole general situation—or perhaps she was just regretting what they’d started and was trying to figure a way to back out? Not that she had to as far as he was concerned. He would follow her lead. Of course, she _had_ just stripped him practically starkers in the toilet. Some might think of that as a sign of— _something_. Then again, she hadn't even taken off her jumper. 

He had no clue what would happen when he left the relative-safety of the en suite. He spied the pajamas she’d left on the counter for him—at least he had them to provide some semblance of self-respect if this all went to hell, right? He didn’t think he could face a serious conversation about why this thing would never work between them in his Gomez costume or his pants.

He realized that she might also just let things go unsaid between them—just never mention it. It would be that thing he thought of sometimes—that time they almost shagged—with the kissing, and the making out, and Jemma divesting him of his clothing and dignity in the toilet. He realized that it would hurt if she did that—possibly more than if she wanted to hash it all out—as if it were so insignificant to her that it needed no explanation. However, he decided, if she failed to mention it or act further on the impulse, he would do the same. And if she did actually want to discuss it, or explain why she thought it was a terrible idea (while he was in his bloody pajamas), then he would listen—and agree to everything she said. Anything she wanted, so long as everything wasn’t spoiled between them.

There was also the other possibility—that she was just upset yet still wanting something else between them—but he really didn’t want to get his hopes up very high. His realistic brain was telling him that it was the least likely possibility. However, the fact that it was even still on the table made him decide that it was worth the risk of the other two probabilities.

Was he about to drop anchor in shark infested waters here, or was he just coming up on the white-sand beach of his own private paradise? Jemma could easily rip his heart to infinitesimal shreds, or they might be poised to become so much more than what they’d ever been before. Things were so up in the air, however, he couldn’t bring himself to admit—even in his own mind—what he'd been feeling earlier. Putting a name on it seemed a sure way to rub salt into the wound when it ultimately turned out for the worse.

Oh, fuck—he really was doomed, wasn't he? He looked at the tiny window over the toilet and decided that even he wasn’t slim enough to fit through it—not to mention—they were on the third floor.

He quickly showered and then changed into his makeshift pajamas. The last buffer between him and utter humiliation when she ultimately rejected him—his jogging bottoms and his MIT top. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and—bloody hell—if he didn't look practically identical to the sixteen-year-old wanker he’d been at MIT. Despised for his intelligence, utterly friendless, insecure around everyone and desperate for human contact but unable to trust anyone enough to provide it. Quite the man about campus he'd been—actually, locked in the aeronautics lab more like.

He’d never really had a friend until he met Simmons and he just couldn’t stomach the idea of bollixing what they had up. Going back to how he’d been then—lonely and scared that it would always be that way—it just wasn’t an acceptable alternative. He’d much rather stay friends with her than have some sort of fling that destroyed everything they had together. They were more than friends, really—they were partners, equals, they filled in each other’s gaps. They made each other better.

But on the other hand, if things _did_ work out tonight, he could see it becoming the fulfillment of both of their lives happiness. She really was the best person he’d ever met. He’d seen her obvious kindness, brilliance, spirit, tenacity and curiosity the first time he’d heard her speak in Professor Vaughn’s class—and she’d only ever gotten more incredible on closer acquaintance. She might be his best friend in the world now but, if this thing happened, they might be much more to each other than that. And as long as he did everything in his power to ensure her happiness, it might last a lifetime. Which was something that he really had to admit, he fancied the sound of.

He felt the weight of knowing he really wasn't good enough for her—not when she had so much brilliance, beauty and such tremendous goodness. She likely deserved someone who could protect her in a way he never could. S.H.I.E.L.D., after all, wasn't exactly a danger-free life. He was scrawny and plain, but the one way he could think to make up for his deficiencies was to work harder than anyone else would to keep her safe—and make her happy. He was a genius after all, he could put his one advantage to use and try to always put her safety and happiness ahead of his own. He knew he could love her more than anyone else ever could. He could appreciate her far more as well. Of all the men he'd seen her date, not one had ever fully understood her cleverness or how little they deserved her attention. He would never forget it and never take her for granted. 

Buoyed by desperate hope, he folded his costume into a pile that he clutched to his chest. Then, he called out into the other room, “Jemma, are you…” The word to use here eluded him. She might be changing still but nothing seemed right—or lacking in innuendo—which was not something he needed to fuck about with just now.

 _Decent?_ What was he, in a film from the 1950s? No.

 _Dressed?_ He wouldn’t like to imply he _wants_ that—so, surely also a no.

 _Ready?_  Oh, hell, no.

 _Finished?_   Jesus bleeding Christ, no.

 _In bed?_ Fuck, no.

Goddamnit, shite and bugger it!

“Can I come out now?” he called timidly and grimaced, shaking his head at himself. Oh, for chrissakes, that was bloody pathetic as well.

“Yes,” was all she called back.

He stepped out to find her already laying in her narrow bed. She looked comfortable, scooted over toward the wall to make room with her head snuggled down into her pillow. He put his pile of clothes down on her desk near his jacket and went to stand by the bed. Though it wasn’t the first time he’d slept in her bed, he must’ve looked full of trepidation because she lifted the edge of the covers to urge him in with her. Truthfully, his previous sleepovers had always been impromptu, with him falling asleep as they studied or watched a film. There had never been previous discussion and never before _pajamas_.

Before getting in where she’d folded the corner of the covers down, he reached out for the switch to the lamp, when she blurted, “Are you tired?”

The correct way to answer that question seemed clear since he was too keyed up to be tired and whatever reason she was hoping he wouldn’t be tired was probably better than laying in the dark wishing he might be able to sleep.

“Er, I s’pose, ehm, not,” he said very reticently, instantly wishing he could take each syllable back in its entirety. What was wrong with him?

“Well, if you are, I mean, that’s fine,” she said quickly, reacting to his seeming uncertainty.

His stomach twisted as he tried to read between the lines. Was she hoping he wasn’t tired, or was she relieved he might be?

“I, ehm, I’m really not,” he decided on, only because it was the truth and he wasn’t sure there was a better answer beyond that in the face of his inability to discern what she preferred.

“Okay, good,” she said and then nothing more.

His relief at having given the correct answer faded as he just stood there waiting for further instruction. He looked at the light, at her and then at the folded back covers.

When she still gave no indication, only looked at him expectantly, he began to wonder if the previous conversation had been in his imagination. He sat down on the bed with his back to her to hide his nerves. “Should I leave on the light?”

“Alright,” she said softly.

He took in a deep breath and lay back carefully in the narrow bed, trying not to crowd her toward the wall.

“Did y’ want to talk more?” he asked, once he’d settled onto his back as comfortably as possible. He wasn’t certain why he was opening the invitation except that he really found that the idea of her ignoring what’d happened was niggling at him. It was painful and it hadn’t even happened yet.

The dim light of the lamp wasn’t terribly bright but he could see her plainly as she seemed to tense slightly, then she shook her head. Suddenly, her hand came up and skimmed over his chest, coming to rest just over his heart. “Not really. Unless you do?”

He shook his head sharply. “No, no. Tha’s fine,” he said immediately. Yep. Fine. Shite. For chrissake, he was a coward.

He felt her shifting closer until her lips brushed just under the cut on his cheek. His heart began to race like he’d just jogged all the way to Neurobiology as she kissed him three more times over his bruised cheek and once just under his eye.

Then she slid her hand up from his chest to cup his jaw, applying a gentle pressure until he turned his head toward her. Before he had much more time than to see the look of curiosity in her eyes, she was pressing her lips to his once more. He turned completely into her, bringing his arm around her waist to pull her closer.

His feelings were all a jumble. There was joy, sadness, worry, fear, lust, love, regret, doubt—all of them swirling around in a whirlpool within his conscious mind. Occasionally, one would bubble to the surface and then submerge again to be replaced by a different recognizable emotion. Each time it happened, he would experience the feeling sweeping over him only to feel it sink back and be replaced by another just as strongly. His heart and his body were saying “Yes, finally, thank god!” But his brain was still telling him this wasn’t rational and that they’d just muck everything up.

Right now, they could still stop—it wouldn’t be too late for him. They could go back. Okay, they’d kissed a few times, he’d seen her in her knickers and she’d seen him in his pants. He was relatively certain she could get over _that_ and he could likely get over it as well. Though “get over” for him was probably relative. It would no doubt fuel his imagination during “private time” for years to come but still, he could certainly live with that.

However, if this other thing that he thought was about to happen—in fact, did actually happen—then he would be lost. He’d become Riley. Well, not _really_ Riley. He wouldn’t stalk her, or try to beat up her male friends, or even her real boyfriends. Nevertheless, having tasted something so intimate with her, he had a feeling that he’d be quite addicted to that feeling and, no doubt, obsessed with getting it back. He’d never be able to let her go. Even if it meant pretending to be her friend again while secretly being in love with her. Okay, maybe that was pretty much stalking but he’d never hurt anyone and certainly not Jemma.

“Jemma,” he said, parting slightly from her lips by sheer force of will. “I…” He pulled back farther so he could see her eyes. “Are you _sure_?” He searched her face earnestly, just as she seemed to be doing. “Jemma, I can’t go back if—if we—“

He saw the sheen of tears film over her eyes as she said, “You’ll never have to. Fitz, I love you.”

“I love you too, Jemma but I can’t—”

Already, she was nodding. “I know. Neither can I. And I don’t want to.”

“We could bollix it all up,” he said in one last effort to make her see reason. Giving her one last chance to see what she was really getting, how much she could lose for so little to gain. “I’m nothin' special.”

“You’re everything to me,” she said and kissed him again fiercely.

He couldn’t stop himself this time. There was no more hope for him, he was already lost in the amber seas of Jemma Simmons’ eyes—never to be heard from again. He belonged to her now. She’d enchanted him from the day they met and now he was hers forever and, he hoped, she was his. They would be each others homes now as long as he made her happy—and he would do anything to make that happen.

Her tongue slid against his and he let go of his worries and fears. His mind freed and able to think of something beyond having his hopes crushed under the weight of his inadequacy. Jemma was always the only one who could make him feel like he was truly worth something. Because if someone like Jemma saw the value in him, it must be true.

Wait, hadn’t Jemma just said she loved him? He felt giddy at the recollection suddenly. She’d said he was everything…to her. She felt the same as he did then and the realization nearly stunned him.

He redoubled his efforts, kissing her hotly, delving his tongue past her lips until she was moaning into his mouth. He felt her fingers at the hem of his top, slipping under to touch his bare skin. It made the muscles in his belly twitch and jump before she finally slid higher up over his chest, her nails scratching lightly. He moved his hand up her thigh and didn’t realize until he was clutching her hip that he’d met no obstacles.

She was wearing her old Oxford top—and nothing else.

His cock, which had only been half-hard suddenly came to full attention. Fear rushed back in an instant later. He wasn’t exactly an expert on this sort of thing. In fact, it’d really only been the one time—well, two but still. The second had seemed more charity than anything. He knew a _few_ things but applying them unpracticed under stressful conditions seemed nerve-wracking. Still, what could he do but try?

She had his top rucked up to his armpits now as she moved down to kiss his chest and the bit of nervousness fluttering around in his belly turned into something far more lustful and far less fluttery. It was the beginning of a yearning tension that would, he worried, ratchet all-too-quickly up to desperate need.

She bent her head and kissed the skin just over his belly button and he nearly jumped. She smirked up at him and he said, “Maybe, ehm, I should concentrate on you?”

“Alright,” she said, and pulled her top over her head.

His cock twitched achingly at the sight of so much of her. Her tense rosy nipples, the dark patch of hair between her legs, the smooth expanse of her soft skin. He could even just barely make out her many configurations of freckles where they dotted her arms and chest.

He rolled her back, kissing her throat, working his way down her chest as she took hold of the back of his top and tried to pull it over his head. It got stuck and they both ended up laughing as he raised up to tug it off. As his chuckles died away, he found himself staring at her, awed by her beauty.

“I love you,” he said, without thinking or intending to do so but he could feel that it was working its way up from his heart where he’d been holding onto it, afraid to let it show for fear it wouldn’t be reciprocated. He was stunned by the realization but also so very happy to discover that he was now free to let it out.

She reached for him, surging up to meet his lips again and urging him back to the mattress.

* * *

Jemma felt butterflies in her stomach as Fitz kissed her back deeply, his tongue gliding against hers and making the ache between her legs grow even more agonizing.

She’d planned to just tell him how she felt when he came from the loo. To simply let loose with her feelings and hope he felt similarly.

Seeing all the damage that Riley had done made her feel awful. It was all her fault. If only she’d seen that cretin for what he was. Somehow, truly processing what Fitz had gone though, listening to him speak to the agent, hearing him tell how Riley had been looking for _her_ and not Fitz but he'd refused to give up anything of her whereabouts to Riley. Not that she really believed he would have but the pain and the abuse he’d endured when he might’ve done something else. Perhaps told Riley another place to go so Fitz might have an opportunity to call for help? But he’d said he didn’t want to risk her meeting him in the hallway on her way back. Jemma's heart had clenched in agony, knowing Fitz had endured extra pain and suffering in his worry for her.

Her guilt and anger had kept her from pursuing the enticing idea of showering together after she’d found his additional injuries. Then, when he’d come out from the loo in a cloud of steam, she found herself suddenly speechless and unable to articulate her feelings for him. Actions have always spoken louder than words for her and, Fitz, after all would understand that. He functioned quite similarly in her experience.

His response was exactly what she’d hoped for.

She kissed a tender spot right beneath his jaw. He shivered a bit at the attention and she placed another just below his ear and then his cheek, just above where his slight scar would form. She had a feeling it would become a familiar place for her lips to find.

“Is this okay? I’m not hurting you, am I?” she asked, her lips hovering just over his, feeling his warm breath coming quickly out over her chin.

He shook his head mildly and then breathily said, “No, s’okay. You’re not hurtin’ me.” His words were slow and thick with desire.

His hands went up her back, sliding over her shoulder blades and running down to cup her bum. He let her control the speed and depth of their kiss as she hovered over him carefully. She angled her head to the side and brought her lips against his. He responded but didn’t push for more as she traced his lips with the tip of her tongue. When she slipped beyond the boundary of his teeth, exploring the inside of his mouth, his fingers tightened slightly squeezing her arse before sliding back up to pull her tighter until her breasts were pressed pleasantly to his bare chest. He was panting against her mouth as she sucked his bottom lip between her teeth, running her tongue over it teasingly as she nipped. His hands slid down to the small of her back, pressing her belly into his and she felt him hard against her hip through the fabric of his jogging bottoms. She drew her leg upward, over his thighs and pressed her pelvis against his hip, trapping his erection between them. He moaned into her mouth and then pulled back suddenly.

“Jemma,” he whispered. “This is…” he faltered.

She wasn’t sure what he wanted to say but she heard the anxiety.

He laughed dryly. “I want you so much,” he said and it felt like a millions butterflies suddenly took to fluttering through her trembling belly.

She brought her lips to his again briefly. A quick, tense kiss that had him chasing her lips when she pulled away.

“What’s wrong with that?” she questioned, her tone seductive.

“I can’t tell if you only want this for now—kissin’—or, you know, _more_ than that,“ he said significantly, “but I don’t know if I can keep doin' this without…” he cleared his throat, “embarrassin’ myself. And if you do want more than this—well, I really hope you’re sure that you’re ready for it, Jemma. Because, Christ, I can’t think straight when you kiss me like that. I couldn't say no to you even if I wanted to.”

“Good,” she said. “I want you too. I’m sure.”

His response was immediate. He rolled her back and began kissing her in earnest. His tongue lacked some of the finesse it’d had earlier but what he lacked in technique, he made up for in passion.

He stopped abruptly and raised up. “Oh god, what about, you know, a condom or—ehm, I mean, I don’t…” he trailed off.

“I would insist with anyone else but I don't find it strictly necessary. I’m on birth control pills,” she explained.

“You are?” he questioned, sounding stunned.

She couldn’t help but chuckle slightly at his surprise. “Fitz, have you met me? Your lab partner, Jemma Simmons? Excels at preparation? Always insisting on redundancies? Never trusting the reliability of statistics when human error is involved?”

His laughter was rather boisterous.

Somewhat more serious, she added, “I have condoms if you like. But I assumed that, between the two of us, we wouldn’t really need them. But please, correct me if I’m wrong, by all means.” She gave him a significant look.

He snorted rather adorably and shook his head. “No, Jemma. I think you’ve got me dead to rights. I’m not exactly very, ehm, experienced?” They both snickered. Then, laughter fading, his pale blue eyes softening, he suddenly asked, “My lab partner? That all you are?”

She shook her head, stroking the line of his jaw with the pad of her thumb. “No, not anymore. I’m your—everything—anything you want.”

“I love you, Jemma,” he said, his tone serious as he kissed her very softly this time, lips gliding sweetly over hers. “More than anythin’, more than everythin’,” he whispered against her cheek.

“I love you too, Fitz.” She stroked down his neck, lazily following the border of his hairline.

She raised up slightly and brought their lips together again. As they shared breath, tongues meeting and lips caressing, it didn’t take long for him to get the hint that speaking wasn’t what she wanted to do just now.

Caressing his smooth back, she couldn’t help but feel arousal coursing through her. Her body responded to the least sensation, from his chest grazing over her taut nipples to his whisper soft kisses to her neck.

His cock was like stone as it pressed into her pubic bone almost uncomfortably. She toyed with the idea of bringing him off so they might have a sweeter, slower first time. However, as he kissed her neck messily, his fervency incredibly palpable, she decided that she wanted heat and passion, the high of fingers biting into skin. It might not last as long as she might like but she’d always have the memory of it. His desire for her, such intensity sated in one amazing and feverish union. She wanted to feel the frenzy of it, of Fitz making love to her. There would be plenty of time for slow and sweet later.

Attempting to ignite the cascade, she brought his hand up from her hip to cover her breast, arching into his touch. She felt his sharp exhale on her neck and then his mouth was on her, sucking, kissing, licking, teeth grazing gently over her nipples. She moaned with her fingers clutched in his soft, springy hair.

She felt his other hand slip lower, tentative fingers grazing over her coarse, flattened curls, teasing open her lips so they could skate through her wetness. She could feel him fighting his impatience already. His eagerness made excitement zing though her as his fingers slid over her clit immediately before moving downward to slick into her opening. Her hips bucked up involuntarily, coming up to meet his exploring fingers as they stretched her open.

She slipped her hand into his pajama bottoms and brought her fist around his cock. She wasn’t sure that she’d ever felt a man quite so hard before. He groaned as her palm slid over him. Feeling the loose ruffle of foreskin between her fingers, she ran her thumb over the head, gathering his slick wetness and swirling it around the end.

His ragged breathing got even more so as he reached down to still her hand. “I’m—I don’t think I can last long,” he said. “I want you too much.”

“I want you now. I need you inside me,” she said, still yearning to feel his full passion for her. “Please.”

She could feel him nodding against her neck.

She pushed at the waistband of his bottoms and, with his help, they both managed to shuck them off—with him shoving at them with his hands and her using her feet. He settled between her legs and she brought her knees up along his waist, feeling his hardness thrust once through her pubic hair and up over her belly, leaving a cool, wet line against her skin that made her shiver.

“Jemma, are you ready?” he gasped out.

She wrapped one arm around his back and with the other she reached down to guide him toward her entrance. “So ready.”

He was quite gentle at first, letting her body open to him as slowly as he could manage. She was surprised at how good he felt within her—she hadn’t been sure if such hardness would be pleasant or not, but her body's pliancy was the counteragent. She was struck by how strangely satisfied and complete she felt once he'd filled her fully. Even so, that hungry, restless need to reach her peak still gnawed deep in her belly. Her breathing sped up as he kissed her neck and murmured quietly against her skin. She moved her hips, trying to find the right spot as he began to move in earnest. He drove into her, his hips bucking forward and soon he was gasping, straining, and she knew he was trying to hold back.

“Is it…okay?” he asked dubiously, his inflection spoke of resignation rather than hope.

“It’s good,” she breathed out, arching back, trying to memorize the wonderful feel of him inside her this first time.

“Yeah?” he asked, sounding like he couldn't quite believe it.

Her skin was hot, perspiration beginning to prickle her skin. She rolled her hips up, meeting his thrust in a delicious clash, and he cried out, with a loud “OH!”.

She though it was over already but then he raised up to his elbows, kissing her and then dropping his head down to suck her nipple between his lips.

“Are you, ehm, close?” he asked, against her skin, and she could hear the tension in his voice, the longing to please her and the worry that he wouldn't.

She wasn’t. Just the very earliest tickle that might eventually become an orgasm was evident and she debated how to answer.

“No,” she whispered finally. “It’s alright though. I want to feel it.”

“Feel what?” he asked uncertainly, turning his head to meet her eyes.

“I want to feel you come inside me,” she said, finding his earlobe and nipping it between her teeth.

“Jesus, Jemma,” he moaned, eyes widening. She nipped his neck and skimmed her nails down his back until she reached his arse and then squeezed both cheeks, kneading the flesh in her fingers.

“Christ, okay. I think you’re about to get your wish,” he groaned out.

He raised up, holding himself above her with his arms locked on either side of her. He was faster now with deep thrusts that were firmer as his whole body moved, going back and forth over her instead of just his hips. She felt the muscles of his back and shoulder moving under his skin beneath her fingertips as he drove deeply into her each time. She could hear the faint, rhythmic sounds of him moving in and out of her and she shuddered. She slid her hand up, running furrows into his curls and with the other she squeezed his arse again, feeling the muscle working beneath and making him thrust forward even harder. He scraped the underside of her pubic bone again and she gasped, her hips jerking, seeking out more contact.

“Good?” he asked.

“Very good.”

With one hand, he reached down to take hold of her hip, using his grip to change the angle slightly. Then, his fingers skated down through her curls to stroke her clit but there wasn’t quite enough space between their bodies for the full contact she needed as he bucked into her again and again.

His pleased hums and moans grew desperate as he got closer and closer to the end, even as her body finally began responding fully.

“I’m sorry,” he finally gasped out.

He let out a little groan and she felt him pulsing within her, leaving his traces deep inside. She shivered at the idea. He was the only man who she’d ever allowed the intimacy of not having any barrier between them.

Sweaty and out of breath, he collapsed with his upper body just to one side of her. Still hardly able to speak, he raggedly gasped, “I’m…sorry.”

She shushed him. “No. It was brilliant.”

He laughed a bit brokenly. “Not goin’ to start lying to me now, are you?”

“I’m not lying. It was perfect.” For some reason, she felt suddenly like she wanted to cry at how wonderful it was. She didn’t allow it though, she held it in, knowing it might worry him.

When his breathing returned to normal, he shifted, his soft, slick cock leaving a slight trail of wet across her thigh as he came down on his side next to her. Hmm, she could already see she’d need to teach him post-coital etiquette.

“I fully realize we might be usin’ two different ratin’ systems here,” he said playfully. “So, what’s yours?”

“It was everything I hoped for,” she answered, knowing it was oblique but not quite sure how to describe her meaning more fully.

“Whereas, I, on the other hand, wanted you to enjoy it as much as I did,” he said, sliding his hand up her thigh lightly.

“I did,” she said immediately, turning toward him. “It was exactly what I wanted it to be.”

“Okay,” he said, with no hint of skepticism or teasing. “Now, is it alright to work on what I'd like? Because I really want to give you an orgasm.”

Without taking his eyes off hers, he moved his hand up her leg, tracing the crease of her thigh before parting her lips and dragging his fingers through her slippery folds.

“You don’t have to,” she said, suddenly feeling a little worried, her track record with orgasms was spotty at best.

“I really want to,” he said, leaning closer, so he could kiss her deeply.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, much to her own surprise, when he released her from their kiss.

“What? Why? Because of me?” he asked, his tone a bit startled.

She gave him a half-hearted smack to the center of his chest and scoffed, “No, you berk. Just that—it’ll spoil it somehow. It was perfect as it was.”

“What?” he sounded completely mystified. “But—why would it spoil it? Er, I mean, why would you _think_ that?” She could hear the insecurity in his tone.

She shook her head, feeling a bit silly. “I don’t know. Just—sometimes I can’t and I thought if you tried and I couldn’t…” she said, shrugging slightly. “I don’t want you to feel like you’ve done something wrong. It’s just me sometimes.”

“You won’t know unless we try,” he said, giving her a significant look. “Right?” She nodded and he let his fingers speed up from the very slow pace he’d wound down to during her admission.

She couldn’t really argue with his logic. Soon, she became lost in sensation when he began kissing her neck sweetly again while his fingers stroked between her legs. She couldn’t think beyond the feel of his lips gliding over her skin, his mouth drawing on her nipples, his fingers working inside her.

Her nerves were singing by the time he brought his lips over her clit, sucking gently while she tried not to push her hips against him. Involuntarily, they continually rolled upward, seeking out something to fill the hollowness inside her. She moaned incoherently, only vaguely aware of the desperate sounds she was making as he lapped her most sensitive places. The ache inside her was painful, making her writhe uncontrollably, searching for anything to relieve it.

“I need to feel you inside,” she gasped, only peripherally wondering how he’ll take her instruction.

His mouth ceased moving against her and she cried out uncontrollably in pure frustration.

“I can… _again_ , I mean, if tha’s—“

“Yes!” she cried, grasping at his shoulders to hurry him back up her body.

Then he was inside her again, moving, thrusting, fucking her. She arched against him, her mind fuzzy with sensation taking her over. His hands felt like they were everywhere, her breasts, her clit, even reaching under to find a handful of her arse. He pumped into her and dragged over that elusive spot again. She vaguely heard herself saying something—his name, affirmations of love, outpourings of lustful urging—she couldn’t remember. But then the fire ignited and she let loose a harsh cry as she shuddered and quaked beneath him. She was completely unaware of his climax, only realizing it was all over when he landed on top of her again—exhausted, sticky and breathing like he’d just run a mile on the beach.

“Jesus Christ, Jemma. Everyone on the whole floor is goin’ to know now,” he breathed into her ear, a slight chuckle in his words. Her face grew warm at the vague memory of her volume but she couldn’t quite find it in herself to regret anything.

She shrugged beneath him. “Are we keeping it a secret?”

“No.” He shifted off of her and his softened cock slipping from her this time made her gasp at the separation. “I mean, unless you—“

She took hold of him, pressing their chests together, and brought her lips to his. Drawing back, she said, “I love you, Fitz. This is what I want now—us, _together._ Partners in science, working for S.H.I.E.L.D., saving the world and,” faint heat rose to her cheeks, “...making love. From now until we decide on another course—together. Isn’t that what you want?”

He was looking down and she couldn’t see his eyes but he slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers as he toyed with the ends of her long hair where it lay against her shoulderblade.

“I want whatever you want, Jemma,” he said a bit pleadingly. But that just wouldn't do.

“What do you _really_ want, Fitz?” She reached up to stroke down his cheek.

“I just don’t ever want to lose you,” he said, meeting her eyes, his voice breaking. He pulled her close and clung to her. She could feel him trembling with emotion.

She ran her hands over him soothingly, wishing that she could tell him that it would never happen but knowing she couldn’t make him any promises. “I’m not going anywhere without you,” she said finally and she felt his breath hitch slightly. "I never want to be without you."

He looked up, a slight smile curving his lips and she kissed his forehead, then his cheeks and finally his lips. Their tongues met, tantalizing for a moment before he broke the kiss.

“I’m holding you to that, Jemma Simmons,” he said, taking her hand and lacing their fingers before resting them together along her thigh.

They chatted about their future for a bit—working for S.H.I.E.L.D., having adventures, making discoveries and even perhaps a small cottage in Perthshire one day. Eventually, they fell asleep, content and happy, with their fingers entwined as they held each other close.

* * *

 Thanks to memorizingthedigitsofpi for this lovely manip!


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